Eighty in a 55 zone

One of the greatest challenges of my generation is caring for our aging parents,

One of the greatest challenges of my generation is caring for
our aging parents, now that medical advances are enabling them to
use up our inheritance at a much faster rate. Not to mention how
they selfishly spend Social Security money that could otherwise
be given to needy defense contractors.

I was reminded of this when my own 80-year-old father and
late-70s mom came for a visit and left me with a strong
impression: 80 isnt 80 any more.

A long time ago, my great-grandfather was that age when my
cousins and I would visit him in his one-room shack behind our
grandparents house. We would sit on rickety furniture in
that darkened little space, four 8-year-old boys convinced that
the strange odors in the air could only be the smell of death.
Great-Grandpas hearing was mostly gone, so he spoke loudly,
punctuating his reminiscences with periodic spits of tobacco
juice into a nearby coffee can. Did I mention he was toothless
and laughed with a high-pitched cackle? On average, we lasted
about five minutes before we would flee, shaken by the ordeal,
and take refuge in a nearby tree.

these days you seldom see the elderly with tobacco juice
dribbling down their chins. (My own mother has gotten much better
about this, especially when company comes over.) Now they whiz
down the road with big plans and bigger cars, blowing the dust
off unused shuffleboards as they speed by. My father still exudes
brash self-confidence as he walks up to my front door, whips out
a bundle of bills, and says, "Son, heres 50 bucks. Now
turn up the heat."

To be sure, my parents are slowing down considerably. Because
of his advanced age, my father has been reduced to playing a mere
three rounds of golf per week. And his growing physical
limitations have made him decide to stop doing his own roof
repairs "in a few years." (Roof repair happens a lot in
coastal Florida. Coincidentally, in another example of the
stubbornness that can come with aging, my father refuses to
believe that the Bush administration was responsible for last
falls hurricanes. "OH SURE!" I reply testily,
"ignore the science!")

My dads daily exercise regimen is also beginning to show
evidence of age-related fatigue. Hes finally at the point
where I can almost bench-press as much as he does. (Another
hundred pounds, and Im SO going to out-lift him!)

Looking on the bright side, my brother and I have been waiting
for decades to get the better of our dad in arm-wrestling. After
years of humiliation at the dining room table, it looks like
sometime in the next decade well be able to crow,
"Take THAT, Mr. 90-year-old! NOW whos your
Daddy!?" Of course, well taunt him from a discreet
distance, so as to avoid our fathers conciliatory handshake
or loving embrace (known, respectively, as the Crushing Vice-Grip
From Hell or the Unending Bear Hug of Pain, also From Hell.)

IT seems my dads age has further hampered his mental
judgment, given that he recently retired as head usher at church
- a gig with obvious power and authority - preferring instead to
be, ahem, the doorman of the nursery. When he could be
schmoozing with his peers, he has inexplicably chosen to watch
over young children waiting for parents after worship. I have
seen these children, their faces downcast at leaving a man
whod just put a shiny new quarter in their little hands and
whod said goodbye in the unmistakable voice of Donald Duck.
For the first time in their young lives, these children must face
the fact that their own parents have limitations and may not
measure up, especially in the Donald Duck department.

My mother, too, is beginning to show signs of aging. She has
cut back significantly on her daily routine, and now only stays
up a couple hours past midnight working on correspondence and
computer research for the church library. I can relate to that
schedule. When she finally goes to bed, Ive already been
asleep for hours, exhausted despite my youth from another evening
of tea-making and page-turning.

Surprisingly, my parents have adopted a moderate attitude
toward current events, even though their preferred information
source is Fox Spews (sorry, Fox News). In fact, Im
more often the one throwing decorative pillows at television talk
shows, uttering epithets that can only be described as, uhm,
crotchety.

Be that as it may, my parents will continue to grow older and
the day will come when I, as the oldest child, will need to take
charge of their care. I accept this responsibility and have
assured them that I will spare no effort, no expense, no
sacrifice when it finally comes time to move them in with my
sister.

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